Still.

I need to be
still
whenever
and however
the thought of that moment surfaces to
unplug my tear ducts
and become ripples of sorrow
tears of regret, until
the soul reaches the
edge of
a brief
understanding
the hint of an acceptance.

The trauma of the minute
repeats itself. My throat tightens
pins me between the eyes
chokes
all thoughts
disturbs all rhythms.

And the clock stops.